


It’s Not Like in the Films – Or Is It?

by mycitruspocket



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff and Humor, Getting Together, M/M, Nudity, Prompt Fic, Spy Mycroft, Undercover Missions, doing legwork, in a spa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-26
Updated: 2014-11-26
Packaged: 2018-02-27 02:44:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2676029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mycitruspocket/pseuds/mycitruspocket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“The things one does for Queen and Country,” Mycroft mumbles under his breath into the empty room, stretching his naked body languidly along the marble bench. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	It’s Not Like in the Films – Or Is It?

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for the Mark Gatiss Birthday Auction 2014, thanks to everyone who participated to raise money for [LLGS!](http://www.llgs.org.uk/)  
> [Rykoe](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Rykoe/pseuds/Rykoe) was my winner and kindly gave me a few prompts to choose from. This was my favourite:
> 
>  _“M & L meet at a health spa (long weekend) - M is there because of his health (officially), and because of some spy business (unofficially). L. is there because of Sherlock (officially and unofficially). Sparks fly, spies fly, and a lot of white bathrobes are messed up.” _ Also: getting together, humour, same age as in the show. 
> 
> I hope you like it, even if I didn’t manage to include all the points. It was lovely to write for you and thanks for your kindness and patience. :) 
> 
> As always, my faithful beta and friend [Erasmus_Jones](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Erasmus_Jones/pseuds/Erasmus_Jones) did an amazing job, she’s the best! All remaining mistakes are my own.

Settling down on the warm tiles in the misty steam bath, Mycroft feels the tension leaving his body slowly but steadily. He lies down on his back, finally able to relax properly. The past few days were stressful—legwork always is—but there are delicate matters he prefers not to leave in someone else’s hands. Such as the deplorable jewellery thefts taking place in luxury hotels and spas all across Europe and before reaching the UK, with very few clues to go on. Usually not a case Mycroft would get involved in, but since members of the royal family had been amongst the latest victims, it had been brought to his attention.

Anthea had then suggested he should take on the undercover mission himself. A week in a lovely spa in the country and a bit of excitement would do him good, she’d said. That her majesty would be delighted to know that the matter is in the most capable hands, surely to bring the issue to a close with no further damage and hopefully recovering the stolen pieces before they became untraceable.

Mycroft had to agree that putting together and briefing a reliable team would take too much time, he already knew the details of the operation thus far so taking control of it himself himself was the logical choice.

As exciting as undercover missions like this may sound, Mycroft loathes them. He is used to putting on an act in public, that’s not the problem; it’s the disruption of his usual rhythm. His morning and evening routines are severely affected, in some places on this earth it’s impossible to find a passable pot of tea, and don’t get him started on sleeping in a bed that is not his own. It’s nothing at all like the glamour, the action and the romance portrayed in certain films for instance, for Mycroft it is very much an ordeal. Of course he has also never, not once, woken up in someone’s arms after the job was done, which would at least have made up for the foreign bed situation.

“The things one does for Queen and Country,” Mycroft mumbles under his breath into the empty room, stretching his naked body languidly along the marble bench.

In the end, of course, Mycroft’s plan had worked perfectly and if he uses his position to have a junior complete the paperwork associated? Well that would just be effective time management, wouldn’t it? He will be back in his own bed and at his own desk tomorrow, even if Anthea insists on him staying for the rest of the weekend since public money has already been spent and the room secured for the remainder of the week. It’s enjoyable for the moment, the warm but not too hot humid air and the fog around him. Mycroft can truly relax and he likes the feeling of it, but he’s also sure he would find all of this incredibly dull if he has to stay for longer.

When the door opens and closes again, he completely ignores whoever entered the room. Mycroft doesn’t even open his eyes, he’s had enough meaningless small talk with the staff and other guests during his investigation and now there is absolutely no need for him to engage in any kind of conversation with strangers until he leaves.

What he can’t ignore—no matter how badly he wishes he could—is the unsure but cheerful " _Hi"_ that’s coming from the man still standing by the door. Mycroft doesn’t need to open his eyes to know who exactly this man is, he would recognise his deep, rough voice amongst thousands, but he does anyway. The steam is clouding his vision but he can make out the unmistakable broad and very naked figure of Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade moving towards the other end of the room. When he sits down, Mycroft decides to return his greetings with an acknowledgeable " _Hmhmm"_. Enough, he hopes, to sound at least polite but to not give away his identity.

Why is he even here? This is not a place where he could see the Inspector spending his off duty time. Mycroft knows exactly which pubs he prefers and isn’t there even an important football match today? Surely Lestrade would never choose a spa visit over a football match? Unless he is here with someone, a thought that makes Mycroft’s chest feel incredibly tight all of a sudden.

Closing his eyes again for a moment, Mycroft wills himself not to think about the fact that they are both naked and only a few feet away from each other, but the treacherous fantasies he indulges in more often than he admits to himself are surfacing nevertheless. The previously comforting warmth is starting to get really hot now but he doesn’t dare moving, he has to wait until Lestrade leaves the room to then make his exit at a somewhat hasty pace.

Mycroft wishes he could at least hide in his fluffy white bathrobe, but he left it on a hook at the entrance to the steam bath. He never felt this exposed in his entire life and is extremely grateful they met in this misty environment and not in one of those Finnish-style saunas.

At the other end of the room Lestrade is fidgety, Mycroft can see it out of the corner of his eye. The man is still sitting and not lying down comfortably, like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Suddenly Lestrade stands up and is at the exit before Mycroft can even blink. The last he sees of him is a glimpse of a perfectly rounded, bare arse before the door closes behind him.

Mycroft takes a deep breath, needs to calm down a moment before he can map out the quickest way to his room in his head. He stands up, composing himself as much as possible before opening the door carefully. Letting his eyes wander before he steps outside, he looks out for the distinctive silvery hair and seeing none, reluctantly leaves the shelter of the fog behind him. Mycroft puts on his bathrobe in a hurry, turning up the collar to feel a bit more protected and with his head down, tries to walk as nonchalantly as possible towards the lift that leads up to the rooms.

Before he can reach it, the sound of familiar laughter makes him freeze concealed behind a wooden column. Between him and the safety of the lift, leaning against the bar, is the man he wants to run away from. Now also clad in one of those ridiculous bathrobes, Lestrade chats with the bartender who is currently mixing his drink. No, drinks. Mycroft’s heart sinks at the realisation that Lestrade must surely be here with someone else.

To Mycroft’s discomfort the barman and the Inspector seem to have found an amusing topic because both of them are smiling and laughing and Mycroft feels queasy. Especially since the bartender, Enrique, has been broody and melancholy the whole week. But then, Mycroft knows how uplifting a conversation with Lestrade can be, no matter how brief. He can’t really blame Enrique for being smitten with the good Inspector’s charms since he lost that fight years ago.

Arriving here last Sunday, Mycroft had soon found out about Enrique’s chatty nature and knew if there were any gossip around the employees or guests, he’d be the one to know all the salacious details. He got all the information he wanted in the end, even if it proved to be more difficult than he’d excepted because Enrique took every opportunity possible to talk about his mean but oh so pretty ex-boyfriend who’d left him a few weeks ago. Said ex-boyfriend seems to be forgotten for the moment, because Enrique practically beams at Lestrade, almost cuts himself too as he tries to slice a lime without actually looking at it.

What a poor attempt to impress a man like Lestrade, Mycroft thinks, before he realises that after collecting his drinks, the Inspector walks right towards him. All he can do is turn around on the spot—not too quickly of course because he doesn’t want to raise attention—and walk through the door leading to the outside facilities. Lestrade is most likely heading to one of the comfortable seating arrangements where no doubt someone is already waiting for him.

At a normal pace and without looking back Mycroft makes a beeline for one of the Finnish sauna cabins. There is nowhere else he could hide out here since it’s autumn and he supposes not even he can convincingly enjoy the October drizzle on one of the uninviting looking, slippery benches that are scattered across the otherwise lovely garden. He doesn’t even feel the chill, his skin is still tingling from the warmth of the steam bath, or perhaps from the stimulating company he had in there, but he knows better than to dwell on this distracting thought.

Walking across the grass in his flip-flops, Mycroft is too busy trying not to slip on the wet leaves in the strange footwear to worry about what might happen if he had been seen. But even if he was, why would Lestrade follow him? It’s not like they were friends. They have the occasional lunch together, yes, and Mycroft enjoys the company very much indeed, but they never talk about anything other than Sherlock related topics after all. If Lestrade is here to have a relaxing weekend far away from his infuriating brother, than the last thing he’d want is spend time with the elder Holmes instead.

Mycroft enters the wooden cabin and while he reluctantly removes his bathrobe in the front room, a woman leaves the sauna and with a short nod at him, retrieves the only other robe on the hooks and heads outside. Even if he is alone for now, Mycroft doesn’t feel comfortable walking around completely nude. He grabs one of those huge bath sheets from a rack, wraps it around his hips and with a sigh enters the sauna. The heat hits him abruptly and he is reminded why exactly he hadn’t gone out here before. This is nothing like the steam bath at all, it’s painfully hot and he can already feel the first drops of sweat on his skin.

Mycroft debates for a moment if he should just wait in the front room for a few minutes and then head straight back to the lift. Lestrade would no doubly be engaged in conversation with the receiver of the drink, so chances that he wouldn’t be noticed are high. Just as he wants to act on this promising new plan, he spots Lestrade jogging up the path through the little window. Mycroft has nowhere else to go so he flees up the rows of benches into the back corner, closing his eyes as if he could shut out the outside world.

Someone—he knows it’s Lestrade of course—knocks on the window and Mycroft pretends to meditate or something, not reacting at all, ignoring him completely. There is another knock, more impatient this time, and then a curse. Most people wouldn’t dare invade his personal space any further without express permission because they knew the consequences would be dire, but since Lestrade just stomps around to the door and is now entering the cabin, proves he certainly is not most people. Only moments and he is coming into the sauna and there is no way Mycroft could have been prepared for what he sees next.

Lestrade, with an annoyed frown on his face enters the sauna stark naked and looks Mycroft straight in the eye. There is no hint of self-consciousness in his posture and Mycroft feels almost envious how this man can stand here so unabashed, crossing his arms over his strong chest and obviously waiting for Mycroft to say something.

“Detective Inspector, you are…” It’s not the first time Lestrade has been able to render him speechless and Mycroft finds it more intriguing than annoying. “Surprisingly naked,” Mycroft adds eventually.

“Of course I’m bloody naked, we are in a fucking sauna! I suppose it’s making you uncomfortable and that’s why I left the steam bath earlier. Thought you’d be more the type to have a drink with me outside in our bathrobes than have an awkward chat in that foggy room. I wasn’t the one that fled into a sauna, you know. Oh and I’m pretty sure you are supposed to lie on this thing and not covering yourself up like that. You’re going to get too hot in that, especially since you chose to sit on the top bench where it’s even hotter than down here.”

Mycroft tries very hard to focus on the man’s face and on his words, which is proving more difficult with every second. Apart from radiating masculinity Lestrade is also right, it’s unbearably hot for several reasons and just as he wants to agree, Lestrade points his finger at him.

“No, let me finish! I’m going back now, left our drinks at a table near the door. You come back in your own time, all right?”

Mycroft just nods, still processing what just happened when Lestrade is long out of sight. He doesn’t want to keep him waiting for too long so he decides against a quick shower and just towels himself off before heading back. Through the window he can see the Inspector lounging in one of those comfortable armchairs, drinks before him on the coffee table. Mycroft has seen him sit like this often enough when they _accidentally_ met at Baker Street, but now his bare calves—footballer’s calves—are on display and Mycroft has no idea how to behave in such a situation. He’s never had drinks with a handsome man clad only in a bathrobe before. If only those things would be a few inches longer, he thinks, looking disapprovingly down at his own exposed pale legs.

Before he reaches the door he steels himself. No matter how awkward the circumstances, this is a chance he never thought he’d get so he has to make the best of it.

Mycroft smiles pleasantly as he gracefully sits down in the armchair beside Lestrade who nods towards the drinks.

“Thank you, Inspector. Ah, one of Enrique’s specials, I see.” Mycroft takes a sip from the juicy red drink, carefully trying not to poke his eye out with the purple umbrella decoration.

“Yeah, told him I met someone in the steam room I always wanted to invite for a drink, but never had the balls before. He seemed very keen to mix something special, said you were so nice to him this week, such a good listener, and something about me being a lucky guy.”

Lestrade’s grin is positively indecent now and Mycroft is glad that his face is still flushed from the heat of the sauna so his blush doesn’t show. Not exactly knowing what so say to this, Mycroft busies himself with the little umbrella in the drink.

“And it’s Greg, by the way. It’s long overdue, don’t you think?”

“Indeed it is, Greg. Mycroft,” he says with a bow of his head and is distracted when his eyes meet Greg’s exposed and very attractive knee. He’s never had a thing for knees, never even thought that knees could even be called an attractive body part. But Greg’s are, painfully so, and it’s hard to look away. He manages at last, settling on looking into the man’s warm eyes.

“So, Mycroft, are you here on holiday or…”

“ _Or_ hits the nail on the head, I suppose,” Mycroft chuckles and Greg answerers with a knowing grin. He is probably imagining Mycroft sneaking around here at night with a gun in his hands and seducing pretty barmen, if he believes in all those film clichés. Greg should know better with all the rubbish that crime dramas are showing on television about police work. “And yourself?”

“I’m just playing the nice and scary inspector from Scotland Yard for your brother again. He thought someone involved in one of his cases would be here today and since it was my weekend off… Well, he paid for this here so I didn’t say no, but they haven’t showed up yet.”

“Are you sure about that?” Mycroft asks amused as it dawns to him what this means.

“Yeah, pretty sure. He didn’t have a picture of the man but he described him as… Oh no, wait a minute. That bastard!”

“Yes, Sherlock prefers skulls to family pictures on the mantelpiece.”

Now they are both laughing, and somehow all the awkwardness is gone.

“So he set all this up, eh? Unbelievable! Thinking about it, he was more annoyed with me than usual for the past few months. Said that pining won’t get me anywhere and stuff like that.”

“Did he now? I never took him for an expert in this area.”

“We aren’t either, are we? “

“Obviously not, no.”

“But maybe, um… Maybe we could improve that. Together I mean.”

“That sounds like a wonderful plan, Greg.”

“Yeah, it does. Let’s start right now.”

And with that Greg leans towards Mycroft, touches their lips together briefly but firmly and sits back again, looking very pleased with himself.

Mycroft feels anticipation flutter in his belly uncontrollably as they raise their glasses, eyes locked on to each other. He had been wrong, this weekend won’t be dull at all.

*

Mycroft wakes slowly the next morning, he feels drowsy and warm and happy, cocooned under the duvet with the solid presence of Greg’s body beside him, holding him. He half thought it might have been a dream, but opening his eyes to the sleepy form of his lover proves that this is all very real.

Greg looks endearing with his hair all messed up and Mycroft doesn’t care in the slightest that he most certainly looks just as debauched. He sees their bathrobes lying on the floor near the door, right where they left them the evening before when they decided that they both were done waiting.

Suddenly a kiss lands on his temple and he looks up into sleepy but very happy brown eyes.

“G’morning, beautiful.”

“Good morning, Greg.”

Mycroft steals a quick kiss and snuggles back into Greg’s shoulder, a strong arm holding him close. There is one thing about yesterday that he needs to know though, something he still wonders about.

“Yesterday in the steam bath, how did you know it was me?”

“I could ask you the same, couldn’t I? No, seriously, I’d recognise you anywhere, and not only because I’m a copper and should see things like that. I didn’t need to hear your voice, I know your features far too well, studied them for what feels like ages. It was your silhouette, your profile, even if it was all foggy and dim in there. And, um, the way you were breathing.”

Mycroft raises his head again to look up at Greg in surprised amusement.

“You recognised me from the way I was breathing?”

“It’s creepy, sorry.”

“No, it’s not.” The thought that the man of his dreams knows his breathing pattern is a bit overwhelming, so he covers his surprise up with a kiss on Greg’s shoulder.

“Anyway, I saw it was you and panicked. Couldn’t sit there any longer with you all naked in the same room.”

“We are naked now, Greg, under the same duvet,” Mycroft states mockingly.

“Yes we are you cheeky bastard, but that’s different. I’m allowed to see and touch now.” Greg strokes his hand down along Mycroft’s side, lingering on his arse before moving it up again to prove his point.

“Just to remind you, it was you who came naked into the sauna. An image I will never forget.”

“Yeah, I was angry. Didn’t plan it that way and as I said then, it was you who fled there so… I saw through the window that you had that towel, it was probably more your virtue I was worried about than mine. I don’t have a problem with nudity, my dad took us to the sauna all the time when we were kids. Call me ridiculously traditional, but it just felt wrong there in the steam bath, too intimate, like missing important steps in between.”

“Those steps you are talking about, we took them rather fast in the end, didn’t we?”

“You could say so, yes, but we took them nevertheless.”

“I’m glad we did. Thank you.”

“Me too, but you should thank Sherlock really.”

“Oh, I will. Do you think inviting him on a double date with John to show him how it feels to be visited by a matchmaker is the way forwards?”

“Mycroft, you’re hilarious!” Mycroft enjoys hearing the low rumble of Greg’s laugh from so close and is startled when Greg disentangles their limbs to get up. “Yes, let’s do that, but shower and breakfast in bed first. C’mon.”

Greg hops out of bed and Mycroft’s gaze lingers on his firm backside for a moment. “And here I was thinking only the spies in the films got lucky enough to have an ending like this,” Mycroft mumbles before he follows Greg into the ensuite bathroom where the shower is already running.


End file.
